A New Line of Work
by Ascalon The Demoknight
Summary: Island of Happiness- an isolated little piece of land with a self-sufficient community. The main economic hub of the place is a farm run by Chelsea. She works- or rather, used to work there alone, until she decided to hire someone else. Someone like... an unemployed Russian man with a voracious appetite and a dubious past? Definitely.


A bell began to ring as about a dozen sailors scrambled on and off the ship. Two gangways on the ship opened, coming to rest on the concrete edge of the dock. The captain came out of the cabin soon enough, handing the ship to another seaman. One member of the ship's motley crew came out and shouted something to a group of people on land. Nodding, they ran off somewhere. Leaning on the bulwark was a sailor, well-built and half-asleep, absentmindedly overseeing the rest of his men. On a ramp a few feet away, a number of wooden crates were unloaded and piled up on the dock. Upon closer inspection, one could make out three faded words. 'Island of Happiness'. On the face opposite it was scrawled 'Imports/Exports'. After being carried a small distance away the lock was opened, and a colourful assortment of items carried off. Back at the starboard, another few boxes were being pushed into the cargo hatch. Heavy clambered up the ramp and greeted the sailor.

"Name?" the sailor on board asked. Heavy fossicked in his pocket for his ID. Nodding, the man scribbled down his details. _Name: Mikhail Petrenko. Nationality: Russian. Employment..._After a minute, he politely opened the main door, motioning for Heavy to enter.  
"This way please, sir."  
"You call me Heavy." the large man replied. Nodding, the sailor closed the door behind him and made his way towards the bow.

"Last boarding call!" he lazily cried. The only other people who ever boarded were the sailors, and they usually had the decency to be there early. There was only a handful of cabins on the ship, and every one was vacant. Picking a room, the former Heavy Weapons specialist entered, locked the door and flung his map onto the bedside table. A homely atmosphere seemed to float around the little room, settling on the dove-white sheets of the blankets and pillows. A window lay above the only bedside table there, partially obscured by the flower vase. Plopped inside it was a single white flower reminiscent of a dahlia, its fragrance moist and sweet, not unlike vanilla. Tied neatly to the neck of the vase with silver wool was a small inscription with the taxonomic name _Luna lacrimis_ and a seven-line paragraph serving as a rough botanical description. Heavy didn't bother to read it. He laid his carry-on onto the bed beside him and jumped into this, kicking off his shoes.

About five minutes later, the bell rung once more and the boat began to lurch forward, soon breaking into a fluid glide atop the water. Heavy picked up his map—an unremarkable sketch showing the coast and a small collection of islands a few hundred kilometres off it. A big red circle was scribbled around one, and the name highlighted with blue ink. _Island of Happiness_, Heavy thought. Lying on the top left hand corner was the island, alone in its own little blob of blue sea, the rest of the islands quite contented to leave it alone. The Island itself was vaguely rectangular in shape, but that was all Heavy could see of the small greenish blob. He put the chart down and picked up another paper. Printed on it were the sentences 'Help wanted on farm. Must be able-bodied and above the age of 18. Either gender. Apply by mail.' Heavy's other options were exceptionally dull—a manual worker at one of Mann Co.'s armaments factories or a chef in Siberia. Frankly, Heavy considered farming horribly dull as well, so much so that when Engineer offered him a job in Texas, Heavy found himself trying to remember how to make pierogi dough. It was only when he remembered that Sandvich ingredients were rare in Siberia that he cancelled his plane ticket and called Engineer. But by then Engineer already found enough extra hands. And so, it was a small miracle that Heavy found the leaflet, wedged between brochures and flyers on the counter of a corner store. After hurriedly scrawling his application form down, Heavy mailed it to the island. The reply letter arrived a week later, telling him he'd been hired etc. etc., along with a map of the Island enclosed among some other papers Heavy couldn't be bothered to read.

Heavy picked up the Island map. Extending out from the shoreline was the dock, a simple wooden structure that carried on for a good distance before tapering off near a craggy outcrop. Heavy would be there by five in the afternoon, sharp. That was pretty much the only time anyone ever landed on the island. More rocky structures flanked the shoreline. To the north was the residential area, filled with cottages serving as both homes and business buildings and populated by pretty much every single person on the Island. Except, of course, for his future employer. She lived on the farm, even further north, the only place on the island that managed to be both populated and to retain most of its natural beauty. It was almost as if its owner had learned to live alongside nature and not think of it as a nuisance. Or maybe because it was a goddamn farm and there are typically a fair deal of plants on a farm.

The town centre was flanked on both sides by wilderness. To the east was a lush, isolated plateau atop a cliff linked to the rest of the island by a single suspension bridge. Nature had gradually eaten away the field's only link to the rest of the island, and so it remained that way until a bridge was constructed. That was all that the islanders decided to do to the little expanse there, however. The western end was just as untouched, but a lot more rugged. A massive mountain towered over the northwest, eclipsing the dry soil beneath it. Heavy wondered if that was once a volcano. It could very well have been one. Heavy had heard tales about volcanoes on islands in the Pacific, and how they erupted one day without warning, wiping out most of the island in a magnificent upchuck of smoke and lava.

_Please may mountain not be volcano, _Heavy muttered.

Setting down the papers, Heavy opened his suitcase and sank his teeth into a Sandvich prepared by Medic. Pensively rolling the chunks of ham and lettuce around his mouth, Heavy snickered to himself as he read the note pinned to it. _Danke, Herr Heavy_, it said, written down on a piece of Medic's notepaper. Under the printed caduceus was Medic's signature as well as an indelible brownish stain, coagulated and thick. Same recipe as always, Heavy mused. He took another bite and grinned, smiling as the savoury taste of the Sandvich flooded his mouth. Medic's sandviches were the best, period. Juicy, fatty slices of ham blanketed by Swiss cheese and crunchy lettuce slices, all covered by a layer of soft, whole wheat bread with two olives pinned to the top with toothpicks.

Heavy pulled the blanket over him and rolled down the blinds, lost in his own thoughts. It was barely a month ago that he spent his last night with them.

It was in one of the many, _many_ Mann. Co facilities rampaged around by the REDs and BLUs over the years. Nicknamed 'Turbine', the storage room was once littered by the tattered remains of bodies and empty ammunition cartridges. Now the spatters on the walls were not bloodstains, but soda spills and the odd slice of pizza. Bullets and bodies no longer covered the floors—only the occasional beer bottle or soda can. No more desperate pleas of 'Medic! Medic!'—only the rowdy, drunken bellows of nine men bragging endlessly about their (supposed) virility. Only the REDs occupied the place. The BLUs, Heavy would learn from Ms. Pauling later, were having their own celebration somewhere else. Demoman was busy passing out bottles of Gordon's Gin out. The only person not taking at least a sip of the beverage was Medic, who was busy intoxicating himself with Medigun fumes. On the other side of the hallway, Pyro somehow built a small fire and was busy grilling s'mores with Soldier. A row of steaks lay behind them, smoking, the juice seeping out of the light brown outside of the meat. Picking up one, Heavy sat down beside Engineer's Sentry Gun and began eating. Minutes later, Spy's voice was heard over the PDA.

"Gentlemen," he began, his thick accent and throaty voice as distinct as ever. "Today marks our last day as mercenaries for Mann Co. Some of you will work elsewhere in Mann Co. Some will pursue other career paths. Some—" Spy paused, and Heavy thought he could hear the quietest of sobs from the Frenchman— "some of you will never see us again."

A sullen silence followed.

"Which is particularly miserable for me because I may never see your mother again, Scout."  
"H-Hey!"

A chorus of laughter roused the whole room. Even Ms. Pauling giggled a little.

"Tomorrow, we will be jobless. Useless. Unemployed. Wandering like vagrants, clinging on to whatever money we can find. Our days as mercenaries, my friends, are over."

Spy paused dramatically, the REDs waiting with bated breath.

"But tonight, we get drunk!"

A round of cheers erupted from the RED team as they crammed as much food into their mouths as they could hold, and then some. Somewhere in the control room, Engineer had gotten hold of the PA system and crammed a techno music CD into the system. Soon, amidst the abrupt, syncopated stops and grinding electric noises, a drunken conga line began to appear. Out of nowhere, a near-hysteric Scout bolted across to Ms. Pauling and gave her a shameless, sloppy kiss on the lips, his cheeks almost completely red. Ms. Pauling's face was red as well, though Heavy could not know whether it was from anger or otherwise. Heavy crammed a second steak down his throat and joined the rest of the team. The rest of the night passed in a blur of drunken mercenaries, humiliating dances and shameless juvenile copulative jokes concerning Scout's mother, ending merely an hour and a half before dawn the next day.

Tired and wasted, the rest of the team slowly limped out, laughing or crying drunkenly into the darkness. Heavy and Medic were the last two men there. Slowly, the large Russian man raised his hand, prompting the Bavarian to do so as well. They shared an awkward handshake before Medic made an abrupt turn, waving at Heavy before disappearing into the night.

Minutes later, the boat slowed to a standstill. A single figured opened the door and led him outside.

"Welcome to the Island of Happiness," he said.

As soon as Heavy stepped off the gangway, he was greeted by the sight of a man, middle-aged and balding, a pair of suspenders hanging over his hunched shoulders. In his right hand was a cane, oak, the odd splinter fragmenting off here and there but otherwise in good shape. He was leaning almost completely on it, the stick being wedged further into the ground the longer he stood there. His once-powerful arms now sagged a little, but his narrowed eyes and fierce gaze dispelled all impressions of senility. To the right another gangway was lowered and the crates replaced.

"Good afternoon," he laughed hoarsely. "The name's Taro. You, sir?"  
"Uh... Name is Heavy."  
"O...okay, Mr. Heavy."

Taro ran his eyes down Heavy's ample figure as the big man stuffed half a sandvich into his mouth. After an awkward pause, Taro spoke again.

"Alright, then, Mr. Heavy. Welcome to the Island of Happiness."


End file.
